Felix, a lonely Minotaur living on a remote farm in Minnesota, has his quiet life shattered when a goddess arrives with Betsy and her infant son, Apollo.

Betsy’s face changed at the question.

Felix knew the answer before she spoke. Apollo’s name, the horns, and the gold beneath his hand had already drawn a line he could not ignore. Still, he waited.

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“Zeus,” she said.

Wind moved through the barn. Felix set his jaw so hard it hurt.

“Zeus knows about him?”

“Yes.”

“And where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Felix gave a bitter laugh. Apollo slept on, unaware that his father’s name could make grown people tremble.

Betsy stood beside the feed bucket, gripping its rim. “A goddess brought us here. She said Apollo might survive if I found you.”

“Which goddess?”

“She never told me.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“That his body was failing. That ordinary food wasn’t enough. She said there was an old promise tied to your kind.” Betsy swallowed. “Then she pointed me toward this farm and disappeared.”

Felix thought of his mother’s hidden stone. When he was a boy, she had called its carving the mark of a threshold keeper. He had asked what the keeper guarded. She would never answer plainly.

“You should have been given a choice,” he said.

Betsy’s eyes flashed. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

“I meant both of you.”

She looked away.

Felix understood the anger beneath her exhaustion. She had been told where to go, whom to trust, and what might happen to her child. Nobody had stayed to help her make sense of it.

“He visited once after Apollo was born,” she said. “Zeus looked at the horns. He asked if the baby had shown any light. I said no.”

“And then?”

“He said there had been a mistake.”

Felix went very still.

“Those were his words?” he asked.

Betsy nodded. “He left before sunset.”

She had told the story without crying. Perhaps she had already cried every tear it deserved.

Felix shifted Apollo higher in his arms. “The king of the gods couldn’t spare a day for his son.”

“He could have spared one. He chose not to.”

That was worse.

Felix carried Apollo toward the open barn door. Betsy followed at once. He stopped so she could see the child clearly in his arms.

“I don’t want Zeus coming here,” he said.

“Neither do I.”

“If Apollo’s power wakes, Zeus may hear of it.”

“Then help me keep him safe.”

Felix looked past the yard to the farmhouse. The roof needed patching. The upstairs guest room held boxes of tools and winter blankets. He had arranged his life for one person, and one person only.

“You don’t know me,” he said.

“I know he can sleep when you hold him.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“It’s all I have.”

Felix had no answer.

He led Betsy to the pump. As she washed her hands, he filled a pail and brought it to the porch. The walk gave him time to think, but no thought offered an easy way out. Apollo had settled into the crook of his arm as though he belonged there.

Inside the farmhouse, Felix lit the stove. Betsy stood near the doorway, uncertain whether to step onto the clean floor in her muddy boots.

“Come in,” he said.

She looked around. The room was plain and carefully kept. A chipped blue mug stood beside a single plate on the table. A coat hung from one hook; the others were empty.

Felix set water to heat. “Can he nurse?”

“Yes, when he’s calm. Lately it doesn’t seem to keep him strong.”

“Try when he wakes. I’ll stay close.”

She watched him. “You said you didn’t want Zeus here.”

“I don’t.”

“And you said you wanted nothing to do with this.”

“I meant it.”

Apollo’s fingers tightened around his hand in his sleep. Felix glanced down.

“When I was little,” he said, “my mother used to tell me there were doors the gods could not open by force. She said a Minotaur stood watch at each one. I thought she was trying to make our loneliness sound important.”

“Do you believe her now?”

“I believe this child is hungry. The rest can wait until he’s fed.”

Betsy sat at the kitchen table while Felix found bread, cheese, and the last two apples in the pantry. She ate slowly at first, then with the urgency of someone who had forgotten how hungry she was.

Apollo woke. Felix remained beside her while she fed him. This time the baby drank without turning away. A little color returned to his cheeks.

Betsy looked up at Felix, hope arriving so suddenly it seemed to hurt.

“You’re helping him.”

“For now.”

“For tonight?”

He glanced at the window. Evening had begun to gather at the edge of the fields. Sending them away would mean putting a tired mother and a fragile child back on the road.

Felix took the empty pail from the table.

“There’s a room upstairs,” he said. “You can stay there.”